The Ghosts of Who We Were
by cornfedfiddler
Summary: The war is won, but the war within Katniss has only begun. With her return to District 12, how will she cope with the loss of Prim? How does she move on with her life, especially when Peeta arrives back in 12? The story of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark post-Mockingjay.
1. The Return

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. The characters, and many of the themes, belong to the wonderfully talented Suzanne Collins. I simply like to contemplate those characters' lives post-Mockingjay._

* * *

Destruction. That's what the air smells of as ladder descends from the hovercraft onto the green in District 12 Victors' Village. I suppose to call it "the green" is a stretch, since the grass is brown. Brown like the leaves that have fallen on the ground. Brown like the empty trees. And brown like the fine layer of ash that covers everything—the windows and siding on the homes, the gravel paths, the fence surrounding the village… everything. If it weren't for the layer of sooty ash in Victors' Village, one could likely never tell that beyond the gates and into the town, everything is destroyed. Destroyed because of me.

I feel my stomach lurch as I think back to the time, many months ago, when I returned to District 12. The destruction was unbearable to witness… where homes had once stood lurked empty, burned out shells. Half decomposed, burned bodies littering the buildings and the pathways. The buildings that once housed small shops, like the bakery and the dry goods store, reduced to ash. The moment my mind travels to the bakery, I feel my stomach lurch again. The bakery, which was once a place to experience rare beauty in the form of finely crafted pastries and beautifully iced cakes, had become a gravesite for Peeta's entire family. Peeta…

I bite the inside of my cheek as my stomach heaves again, tears threatening to spill from my eyes. I focus on my breathing and close my eyes to clear my head, taking in the air so different from that of the Capital, where I have been held prisoner for months. The air smells of other things besides destruction, of course. It smells of the wood smoke. Of evergreen. And it smells of soil. For this, I resolve to be grateful, for it still smells mostly like home.

I am startled when I hear the clearing of a throat. My eyes flash open and land on Haymitch, who stands awkwardly across from me on the ladder, staring at me with what I interpret to be a look of gentle concern.

"You gonna stay on that ladder all day, sweetheart?" Haymitch asks lightly. I realize I must have zoned out and take an all-too-sudden step backwards, tripping over my own feet and falling to my hind end without grace. Embarrassed, I feel the blood rise in my cheeks as my eyes travel to my lap. I realize my hands are trembling with both the cold and anxiety. An exasperated sign escapes my chapped lips. There was once I time when I could run through the woods soundlessly and effortlessly. That time seems as if it were lifetimes ago. Now, I trip over my own feet. I take a deep breath, attempting to steady my hands and begin to whisper under my breath the mantra I know all too well.

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. I was in the Hunger Games. I…_

"You alright?" Haymitch asks, standing above me looking even more concerned than before. I nod. His hand extends to me, wordlessly offering his aid. I hesitantly meet his large hand with my own, trembling hand, and I am pulled gently to my feet. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin, but this is nothing new. I have become accustomed to this feeling in the months I spent locked in my room at the Training Center in the Capitol. My body, once youthful, strong, and certain, has been replaced with a hollow shell of its former self. My hair, once long and full, now falls at my shoulders. The singed areas were trimmed away by Octavia months ago. No amount of trimming can hide the bald patches on my scalp, though. Some of the patches have started to grow new, soft, downy hair while others remain bald, exposing new, pink skin growth. I suspect some of these areas will never have hair. My skin has also suffered. My once olive complexion has been riddled with puckered scars and pink, unnatural-looking skin grafts. Many of these grafts have begun to look even worse than when they were new, a result of my neglect. The Capitol doctors prescribed salves, creams, lotions, and even pills to aid in the recovery of my skin, but I could count the number of times I have used them on one hand. I spend my hours surviving. I don't concern myself with things as unimportant as my skin. I feel ugly inside, scarred beyond recognition. Why should my outward appearance reflect anything else?

My eyes meet Haymitch's as I hear the hovercraft above us depart, then drift to the homes in Victors' Village. I notice lights in the windows of my home and that of Haymitch. A look of uncertainty must be painted on my features, because Haymitch speaks up.

"A few others were sent before us… Sae and Thom came back last week." I consider this for a moment before nodding. My eyes drift to my boots and stay there for some time.

It is Haymitch who breaks the silence again. "It's late. You best be getting inside before you freeze," he mutters as he ushers me towards the home I once shared with my family. I remember the letter from my mother, clutched in my left hand, given to me by Haymitch on the hovercraft earlier in the evening. I haven't read it yet, but I know she will not be joining me in District 12 any time soon. There are too many ghosts here for her. Too many for me as well, but unlike my mother, I didn't choose my destination. Mine was chosen for me. A ragged breath catches in my chest, but I quickly blink away the tears that threaten to spill over. I will myself to be strong, if only until I am alone.

I sit in a rocker I have pulled before the fire, soaking in the warmth, letter still in hand.

"Well, see you tomorrow," says Haymitch.

"I doubt it," I whisper to myself as he walks out the door, closing it with a click.

I sit before the fire for some time, my body fighting a silent battle between exhaustion and breakdown. To my surprise, exhaustion wins as I feel myself fall under a cloud of deep, dreamless sleep.


	2. New but Familiar

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, the characters… anything really. Suzanne Collins does. I just enjoy playing with them._

* * *

I wake with a start to the sound of clatter in the kitchen. A feeling of familiarity creeps into my soul. Prim never was very quiet in the kitchen, and today is no exception. She must be up early making breakfast, my mother on her heels and quiet as a mouse. The thought is comforting, especially since my stomach is grumbling with hunger. The smell of frying meat and eggs tempt me.

My eyelids are heavy, but they obey my command to open. Through the fog of sleep, I make out an individual scampering around the kitchen. A spark of recognition clouds my memory as I realize it is not my family, but Greasy Sae in my kitchen. A tired confusion hits me. I blink away sleep and try to focus. Suddenly, memories flood my mind. The rebellion. District 13. The bomb…

With that, I lose control of my empty stomach as it lurches. I lean forward and empty its contents onto the floor, nothing to lose but bile. Stars flood my vision, blocking out the room around me as I suck in air, trying to calm myself. Hot tears roll down my cheeks as a violent sob escapes from my heaving chest.

"There now, girl," Sae soothes, placing a cool, damp rag against my forehead. "You're home. You're okay." She reaches for my hand, placing it over the rag. She disappears for a moment, then places a warm mug in my hand. Peppermint tea. My eyes meet hers, Seam grey like mine, wrinkles creeping from the corners.

"Thank you," I croak, my words thick with sleep. I slowly sip the tea, washing the burning of stomach acid down my throat. The tea is earthy and hot, waking me to the core. Sae wanders back to the kitchen, reappearing momentarily with a bucket and rag. She sinks to her knees and, with the swipe of her cloth, removes the traces of vomit from the floor.

In this moment, my weakness makes me ashamed. "I'm sorry," I tell her in a half-whisper. I blink back the tears that remain in my eyes, refusing to let them fall.

"So far as I can tell, you ain't got nothin' to be sorry for," says Sae, getting to her feet. "Nobody should have to be strong all the time, and it seems that you've been nothin' but strong for years." She drops the rag into the bucket of hot, soapy water, wipes her hand on her shirt, and wipes away one of my tears with her thumb. "Now, come to the table before your breakfast gets cold."

I take a moment to absorb her words then get to my feet slowly, shuffling to the table. I hear the front door open, and turn to see Haymitch step in, still wearing the clothes he left with last night. His hair sticks out on one side, obviously from sleep. To say I am shocked to see him at this hour would be an understatement. But this is not an unwelcome surprise; rather, I find it comforting. He walks to the table and growls something I assume is meant to be a greeting, plopping down across the table from the seat I am standing behind. I furrow my brows, expecting my nose to catch traces of alcohol. Instead, I smell only traces of harsh-smelling soap and sweat. I feel my face relax, and I breathe a quiet sigh of relief.

I pull out my chair and take a seat, surveying the spread of food that has been placed on the table. Eggs, fried ham, and porridge are placed on plates and in bowls. Each place setting has a small glass of juice sitting next to it. Despite my somber mood, my stomach is still ravenous and I greedily help myself to the food on the table.

"You outdid yourself Sae. Thank you," says Haymitch, a rare tone of authenticity in his voice as he pours himself a steaming mug of peppermint tea. Sae takes a seat at the end of the table, a satisfied look on her face as she wipes her hands on her apron.

We eat in silence, Haymitch and I finishing every scrap of food on the table. The food makes my stomach feel as though it may explode, but my body feels grateful for the sustenance. All too well I know the hollows of my cheeks, the sharp angle of my protruding hip bones, the brittleness if my hair and fingernails-the result of extended malnourishment. After years of near starvation, it is hard to be ungrateful for food no matter the circumstance.

Greasy Sae clatters around the table, collecting the spent plates and utensils and returning to the kitchen. I realize I've become lost in my mind again and find Haymitch staring at me with his Seam grey eyes, the dark hollows under his eyes so pronounced that one could mistake them for bruises.

"You don't look too good, sweetheart," he murmurs with no trace of sarcasm. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

"You don't look so good yourself," I say, hardly recognizing my own gravelly voice. A hint of a smile plays at his lips as he scoots his chair back and walks into the sitting room and out of sight. I feel a look of confusion play on my face as I, too, push my seat back and follow him.

I find him on his knees at the fireplace, lighting small pieces of paper and chips of wood. As the fire catches, he begins to stack larger pieces of wood around it. Once satisfied, he walks wordlessly to a wingback chair near the fireplace and takes a seat, fishing something out of his pocket. I walk closer to see what he has, taking a seat on the plush sofa. I realize it is his pocketknife and a small piece of strangely shaped wood. He begins whittling away at the wood with precise, fluid motions, small shavings falling into a delicate pile on the floor.

Despite the fire in the hearth, the room is still chilly. I pull a quilt from the back of the sofa, wrapping myself in it. The quilt feels familiar, small scraps of fabric from the clothes my father once wore creating patterns of beauty, stitched delicately by my mother in years past. This quilt once brought me immense sadness, but the tragedy of my father's untimely death seems dull and old compared to the sharp, raw tragedy of that fateful day only months ago. My fingers trace the delicate, running stitches as I listen to the crackling of the fire and the faint sound of running water from the kitchen. It takes every fiber of my being, but I will my mind to be completely blank, refusing to acknowledge the sadness that claws at my memory. My limbs begin to feel heavy with sleep as my body warms, and I allow myself to lean my head back and close my eyes.


	3. A Long Way Down

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. That's the lovely and talented Suzanne Collins. I'm just some fangirl._

* * *

I wake slowly, rubbing my eyes with the backs of my hands. My body has protectively curled on itself in sleep, the quilt pulled up to my ears. Someone has placed a pillow beneath my head and removed my boots. I pause, feeling a presence with me. I look and see Haymitch still in the wingback chair by the fire, still whittling away at his carving. His eyebrows are furrowed with effort, his back hunched and his face looking older, wrinkles more pronounced in the dimly lit room. I notice the darkness that spills in from the windows and realize I slept through the entire day. I would likely feel lazy if I didn't feel refreshed. It's hard to feel lazy when there is nowhere to be, nothing to do. I'm in District 12 until further notice. I guess Plutarch and Paylor decided they no longer needed a dried-up, worn out, mentally deranged Mockingjay. The thought makes me cringe.

The air in the house is fragrant with the smell of food. It smells wonderful. I sit up, forcing myself to muster some form of conversation. "Are you my new roommate?" I ask Haymitch dryly.

"If I wanted a roommate, I'd get one that didn't talk so much in her sleep. Oh, and one that's a hell of a lot less trouble," he replies sarcastically. I roll my eyes and get to my feet, wandering into the powder room under the stairs.

I splash cool water over my face, removing the traces of glistening sweat from my forehead. My hair falls disheveled at my shoulders, so I open the drawer and pull an ornate brush from its depths. As I run it through my locks, I cannot help but think of Flavius, who gave me the brush on the Victory Tour. I can't help but wonder what he is doing now. Has he returned to his life in the Capitol? I feel with certainty that he won't remain in District 13. Any member of my prep team, for that matter.

As I replace the brush, a glint of color catches my eye. I extend the drawer and find a piece of green ribbon that once belonged to Prim. I gently remove it from the drawer, bringing it close to my face for inspection. The mint green color is beautiful, one of my favorites. I set my jaw as I feel emotions catch in my chest. I begin to put the ribbon back into the drawer, but stop myself. Instead, I twine it between my calloused fingers and brush my hair into a loose ponytail with my fingertips, tying it up using the ribbon. I inspect the results in the mirror and am satisfied. My eyes fall to my clothes, which are wrinkled and disheveled.

I breathe an exasperated sigh as I exit the bathroom and head to the stairs, climbing them two at a time to my bedroom. Without hesitation, I cross the room to the dresser and pull open a drawer, tugging out a pair of moss green pants made from worn denim and a grey, knit sweater. I pull clean undergarments from the top drawer, tossing them alongside the other clothes on the freshly made bed. I strip out of my filthy clothes, abandoning them in a pile at the side of my bed. I make a mental note to thank Sae for tending to the house as I pull on the clean clothing.

I look into the mirror and inspect my appearance quickly. The clothes make me feel more like my old self, but a look of concern falls on my face as I realize the way they sag and gape on my slight frame. I've been thin and underfed my entire life, but emaciated is a better word to describe my current state. My once strong muscles have atrophied from improper nutrition and lack of use. I shake these thoughts to the back of my mind as I turn and head for the stairs.

As I cross the threshold out of my room, my eyes drift down the hall towards the rooms my mother and Prim used to call their own in the home we used to share. I immediately wish I hadn't looked as my breath catches in my throat, my chest feeling as though my heart has been ripped from within. Without a thought, I begin to wander down the hallway towards the room Prim slept in. Tears well in my eyes as I place my hand on the cool knob and twist. As the door opens, I notice nothing has been touched. It looks as though a young girl could have walked out of here only moments ago if it weren't for the very fine layer of dust that had begun to collect on surfaces.

My feet travel to the foot of the bed. I collapse to my knees on the floor, a strangled sob escaping from my chest. It wasn't supposed to be this way. Prim was supposed to live; I was to be the one who died. Didn't I volunteer in her place? Every moment I have suffered was to be in her stead. I was willing to give my life for her. Why? Why did this happen? With these thoughts, I give into the pain and shrink into a trembling disaster of tears and sobs on the floor. In my mind, I hear Finnick reminding me it's harder to put yourself back together than fall apart, but I push those thoughts aside, refusing to acknowledge them. This living death is worse than any mortal death I could possibly succumb to, of this I am certain. I let the world around me fade into blackness.

* * *

I don't know how much time passes. It could be minutes, it could be hours. But I feel a warm hand on my back, rubbing gentle circles. I feel my tense muscles begin to ease and my breathing begin to steady. Tears still fall onto my cheeks and strangled sobs still wrack my chest, but I turn my face towards the person next to me. Haymitch. A feeling of shock registers in my numb mind.

"Don't do this, Katniss," Haymitch murmurs gently. With his free hand, he begins to stroke my hair. I sniff loudly, wiping my eyes and nose with my sweater sleeve. My body feels numb against the cold wood floor. Haymitch's hand touches my cheek, and with a sense of urgency, he puts his arms under my armpits in an effort to drag me to my feet. "Kid, you're freezing. Let's go." There was a time when Haymitch's body, destroyed by alcohol, wouldn't have had the strength to lift me. But that was before I was this thin, and before he sobered up in District 13. While he still looks old for his age with grey hairs at his temples and despair in his eyes beyond his years, his body relished his temporary sobriety. I am pulled to my feet in one swift lift. When my legs threaten to collapse, Haymitch scoops me off of my feet like a rag doll with one arm under my knees, the other at my shoulders.

If I didn't feel so wrecked, I'm sure this would be an uncomfortable encounter; however, in this moment, I am too destroyed mentally to care. A faded memory finds me. My father carrying me through our home in the Seam when I was a child, to put me to bed. I shake the thought away with a shiver. I let my head fall to his shoulder, closing my eyes as my tears fall to the collar of his shirt. My fingers curl into the back of his shirt as he releases a tired sigh.

Haymitch sets me gently on my feet next to my bed as he pulls down the covers. I stare awkwardly at my feet, darkness creeping into the edges of my vision. He eases me down into the bed and pulls the covers to my ears. I close my eyes and let my thoughts drift.

Sometime later, as I drift into a state of semi-consciousness, I notice a fire has been built in the small fireplace in my room. My eyes travel to the nearby chair, and I see Haymitch is still with me, sipping on a small bottle of white liquor, his gaze fixed on the fire. I close my eyes, feeling a strange pang of comfort. Some things never change. I resign to a troubled sleep, haunted by endless nightmares of my deceased sister.


	4. Primroses

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. The story and its characters belong to the wonderfully talented Suzanne Collins. I simply like to contemplate those characters' lives post-Mockingjay. _

_FYI, with trying to keep the story as genuine as possible, there are quite a few direct quotes from Mockngjay by Suzanne Collins in this chapter. I made an effort to italicize them. All credit for this, of course, goes to her._

* * *

Life goes on like this for weeks, though I barely notice the days passing by. Time seems to stand still. I cycle between states of half living and mostly dead, a corpse of my old self. Some days, I try to fight the depression that tugs at my heart, refusing to be my mother. I rise with the sun, half-heartedly bathing and dressing in clean clothes. I spend most of the day downstairs on the couch, and on the best of days, wrapped tightly in a wool coat on the porch swing. Other days, I succumb to my depression and fall into darkness, never leaving my bed. For times when I cannot stand another moment of suffering, I take a dose of my prescribed morphling tablets—plus one or two extra for good measure—and let my mind find oblivion.

Sae comes faithfully every morning and night, creating dishes with what meager food she can scrounge up. When I stay in bed, she brings food to me. I try to eat obediently, but on my worst days, even that is too much. She quietly spoons me a bit of whatever is in the dish before leaving it on the nightstand to rot, much to her dismay. She tends to the fires, making feeble attempts to restart the glowing embers that remain morning and night. I cannot bring myself to tend the fire. The flames that lick at my fingers cause panic attacks. When the fire dies down, I sit in the cold. _The Girl on Fire, now afraid of fire, _I think to myself.

Sometimes Haymitch comes to eat, and other times, I don't see him for days. Old habits die hard, and he drinks to forget, though I find him sober more often than not. We spend a lot of time sitting in silence in front of a fire, him whittling away at pieces of wood. Sometimes, we drink together, though the liquor burns my throat and upsets my stomach. On days Sae finds us both drunk or hungover, she scolds Haymitch, but her heart isn't in it. She understands we both have demons that require silencing.

The phone rings endlessly. I don't answer it. Sometimes Sae picks it up and, less frequently, Haymitch. I figure the caller is Dr. Aurelius; after all, I was to continue treatment via phone with him. I sometimes wonder if it is my mother calling for a welfare check, but I never bother to ask. Does she even care to remember me?

Eventually, the trains start to run again. Our provisions get better with the fresh foods that arrive. Haymitch's liquor stash improves significantly in quantity and quality, which he acknowledges is the doing of Effie Trinket, bless her. Unfortunately, with the increase in liquor consumption, Haymitch comes around less frequently. I begin spending more time alone, often sucking the dregs from bottles left in my kitchen. Sometimes Sae brings Maggie, her granddaughter, to my house. _After months of solidary confinement, they seem like a crowd. _

People slowly begin to filter into the district, though I have no desire to see them. I learn about these things from Sae, of course. I have stepped no further than my porch since I've come back to the district, my home both a refuge and a prison. She speaks of the construction that has begun in the town, and of how Thom and his crew are clearing away the wreckage from the firebombs. The mail begins to run too, my coffee table becoming flooded with letters and small packages. Sometimes I thumb through them, but rarely do I open them. Occasionally, I open a letter from Johanna, who fills her letters with mundane, everyday things about her life back in District 7, but I never write her back. Eventually, her letters stop, though the flood of packages and letters from others continue.

One day, a rather large package arrives. It's another of my bad days, and I have curled on the sofa, covering my head with my arms. The void in my chest feels huge, and every part of my body hurts. Even the sounds in the house hurt. Sae is enthusiastic about the package, but I ignore her encouragements to open it. She takes the package into the study without a word.

Greasy Sae busies herself with dusting around the living room, fluffing pillows and straightening clutter as she goes.

_"Spring's in the air today. You ought to get out," she says. "Go hunting."_

_"I don't have a bow," _I mutter, not wanting to leave the house but also feeling deflated. I haven't seen my father's bow since I left District 13. Gale took it from the woods of 12 when he and the others escaped the firebombing. The memory of the bow sends a pang of sadness through my heart. I try to redirect my thoughts and begin to fidget with the hem of my shirt.

_"Check down the hall," she says. _

Some time later, after she leaves, I consider her statement. My stocking feet find the floor and travel silently down the hall, _so as not to awaken the ghosts in the house. In the study, where I had my tea with President Snow, I find a box._ It is the package. I stare at it with uncertainty, but find myself fumbling with the tape and paper. I dig into the drawer of the desk and come up with scissors, which greatly aid my previously unsuccessful effort. I open the cardboard flaps of the box and snatch a folded piece of paper from the top of the box. I unfold it and begin to read:

_Dear Katniss,_

_I found your things when cleaning the compartment you shared with Johanna. I bet you're missing these. I'm sorry for not getting them to you sooner. _

_Gale_

My breath catches in my throat as I throw the note down onto the desk and tear into the tissue inside the box. Beneath, I find _my father's hunting jacket, our plant book, my parents' wedding photo, the spile Haymitch sent _wrapped in a small silver parachute, _the locket Peeta gave me in the clock arena, _and the pearl. At the bottom of the box are two bows and a quiver of arrows. _I put on the hunting jacket and leave the rest of the stuff untouched. _

I stumble out of the study, feeling comforted by the soft leather of the jacket. _I fall asleep in the formal living room. A terrible nightmare follows, where I am lying at the bottom of a deep grave, and every dead person I know by name comes by and throws a shovel full of ashes on me. Its quite a long dream, considering the list of people, and the deeper I am buried, the harder it is to breathe. I try to call out, begging them to stop, but the ashes fill my mouth and nose and I can't make any sound. Still the shovel scrapes on and on and on…_

_I wake with a start. Pale morning light comes around the edges of the shutters. The scraping of the shovel continues. Still half in the nightmare, I run down the hall, out the front door, and around the side of the house, because now I'm pretty sure I can scream at the dead. When I see him, I pull up short. His face is flushed from digging up the ground under the windows. _His pale blonde hair is longer than I remember, soaked with sweat and falling into his eyes. His white button down shirt is damp with sweat and caked with dirt that clings to him, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His brown trousers have worked themselves halfway up his calf, exposing his artificial limb. His boots are caked with dirt, too. _In a wheelbarrow are five scraggly bushes _with yellow flowers.

I clear my throat, and he startles. His cerulean blue eyes meet mine, and a look of uncertainty washes across his face.

_"You're back," I say._

_"Dr. Aurelius wouldn't let me leave the Capitol until yesterday," Peeta says. "By the way, he said to tell you he can't keep pretending he's treating you forever. You have to pick up the phone." _

_He looks well. Thin and covered with burn scars like me, but his eyes have lost that clouded, tortured look._ In fact, he looks healthier than I've seen him look since the Quell. _He's frowning slightly, though, as he takes me in. I make a half-hearted effort to push my hair out of my eyes and realize it's matted into clumps. _I know I look like a creature from his nightmares._ I feel defensive. "What are you doing?"_

_"I went to the woods this morning and dug these up." _He pauses a little too long, and I feel an uncomfortable expression of confusion wash across my face. _"For her," he says. "I thought we could plant them along the side of the house."_

_I look at the bushes, the clods of dirt hanging from their roots, and catch my breath as the word _rose _registers. I'm about to yell vicious things at Peeta when the full name comes to me. Not plain rose but evening primrose. The flower my sister was named for. I give Peeta a nod of assent and hurry back into the house, locking the door behind me. But the evil thing is inside, not out. Trembling with weakness and anxiety, I run up the stairs. My foot catches on the last step and I crash onto the floor. I force myself to rise and enter my room. _

_I throw open the windows to _air out the room, to release the musty, stale air that has been lurking here for months. _I strip and step into the shower. I scrub my hair, my body, my mouth. Bright pink and tingling, I find something clean to wear. _I catch a glimpse of my skin grafts in the mirror and cringe. Several look red and angry, bordering on infected. I shrug it off and dress._ It takes half an hour to comb out my hair, _which I let fall free around my shoulders to air dry_. Greasy Sae unlocks the front door. While she makes breakfast, I pare off my nails with a knife at her suggestion. _

_Over the eggs, I ask her, "Where did Gale go?" _Curiosity has got the best of me since I received the package.

_"District 2. Got some fancy job there. I see him now and again on the television," she says. _

_I dig around inside myself, trying to register anger, hatred, longing… _anything, really. _I find only relief._

_"I'm going hunting today," I say._

_"Well, I wouldn't mind some fresh game at that," she answers. _

_I arm myself with a bow and arrows and head out, intending to exit 12 through the Meadow. Near the square are teams of masked and gloved people with horse-drawn carts. Sifting through what lay under the snow this winter. Gathering remains. A cart is parked in front of the mayor's house. I recognize Thom, Gale's old crewmate, pausing a moment to wipe sweat from his face with a rag. _

"Mornin', Miss Everdeen. Sure is a pleasure to see you out and about on this fine day," he greets.

_His greeting gives me the courage to ask, "Did they find anyone in there?" _

_"Whole family. And the two people who worked for them," Thom tells me._

_Madge. Quiet and kind and brave. The girl who gave me the pin that gave me a name. I swallow hard. Wonder if she'll be joining the cast of my nightmares tonight. Shoveling the ashes into my mouth. "I thought maybe, since he was the mayor…" _I trail off, feeling as though all hope has been lost.

_"I don't think being the mayor of Twelve puts the odds in his favor," says Thom. _

_I nod and keep moving, careful not to look in the back of the cart. All through the town and the Seam, it's the same. The reaping of the dead. _I begin to regret leaving the house today.

_As I near the ruins of my old house, the road becomes thick with carts. The Meadow is gone, or at least dramatically altered. A deep pit has been dug, and they're lining it with bones, a mass grave for my people. _It is more than I can handle. My eyes well with tears as my stomach lurches, and I lose my breakfast in the thick grasses near the treeline.

_I skirt around the hole and enter the woods at my usual place. It doesn't matter, though. The fence isn't charged anymore and has been propped up with long pranches to keep out the predators. But old habits die hard. I think about going to the lake, but I'm so weak that I barely make it to my meeting place with Gale. I sit on the rock where Cressida filmed us, but it's too wide without his body beside me. Several times I close my eyes and count to ten, thinking that when I open them, he will have materialized without a sound as he so often did. I have to remind myself that Gale's in 2 with a fancy job, probably kissing another pair of lips._

In another lifetime, this was my favorite kind of day, the chill of early spring meeting the warmth of the full sun. _The woods awakening after a long winter. But the spurt of energy that began with the primroses fades away._ I spend an hour here, maybe less, before resigning to the sadness that lurks in my heart and tugs at memories I don't want to remember. I find myself shuffling through the underbrush back towards home._ By the time I make it back to the fence, I'm so sick and dizzy, Thom has to give me a ride home in the dead people's cart. He helps me to the sofa in the living room, where I watch the dust spin in the thin shafts of afternoon light._ Today has been too much. Exhaustion permeates my limbs and the far reaches of my mind. I let myself fall into a dreamless slumber.


	5. Changes

_Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, do not own the Hunger Games. The story and its characters belong to the wonderfully talented Suzanne Collins. However, I do like to dream about marrying a fellow as swell as Peeta or about being as courageous as Katniss._

_Just as the last chapter, there are some direct quotes from Mockingjay so as to keep with the story as much as possible while elaborating. I made an effort to italicize these. All direct quotes belong to Suzanne Collins. Bearing that in mind, I hope you enjoy Chapter 5._

* * *

I stir in the early evening, the last rays of orange sunlight streaming through the windows of the sitting room. I hear Sae clattering in the kitchen again but smell nothing, so I know dinner must still be in its early stages. I begin to flip through the mail, now spilling from the coffee table onto the end tables and the floor. I grit my teeth, knowing one day I will need to start sorting through this endless pile. A sound catches my attention, and my eyes flash side to side with recognition. _My head snaps around at the sound of a hiss, but it takes a while to believe he's real. How could he have gotten here? I take in the claw marks from some wild animal, the back paw he holds slightly above the ground, the prominent bones in his face. _Somewhere, deep inside myself, I actually feel sorry for him._ It is clear he came on foot, then, all the way from 13. Maybe they kicked him out or maybe he just couldn't stand it there without her, so he came looking._

_"It was a waste of a trip. She's not here," I tell him. Buttercup hisses again. "She's not here. You can hiss all you like. You won't find Prim." At her name, he perks up. He raises his flattened ears and begins to meow hopefully. "Get out!" He dodges the pillow I throw at him, _but persists in his hopeful meows. _"Go away! There is nothing left for you here!" I start to shake, furious with him. "She's not coming back! She's never ever coming back here again!" I grab another pillow and get to my feet to improve my aim. Out of nowhere, the tears begin to pour down my cheeks. "She's dead."_

_I clutch my middle to dull the pain and sink down onto my heels, rocking the pillow and crying. "She's dead, you stupid cat. She's dead." A new sound, part crying, part singing, comes out of my body, giving voice to my despair. Buttercup begins to wail as well. No matter what I do, he won't go. He circles me, just out of reach, as wave after wave of sobs racks my body, until eventually I fall unconscious. But he must understand. He must know that the unthinkable has happened and to survive will require previously unthinkable acts. Because hours later, when I come to in my bed, he's there in the moonlight. Crouched beside me, yellow eyes alert, guarding me from the night._

I shake my head, confused as to how I came to be in my bed. I scour my memory, trying to remember stumbling up the stairs, but nothing comes to mind. Maybe Haymitch moved me? I push the thought to the back of my mind as Buttercup moves deftly, silently to perch on my chest, his warmth penetrating the blankets that have been pulled to my shoulders. Haymitch has been missing in action for a week, maybe more. Too drunk to care. I notice the flicker of a fire in the hearth before my eyes wander to the nearby chair, a sleeping figure hunched against the padded seat. Despite his large frame, he looks so small and helpless, his face contorted with a look of mixed fear and dread. Nightmares, just like mine. His blonde hair falls over his brow, his boots near the chair and an afghan pulled over his body. I relax into my pillow, a strange feeling of security flooding my body. When I close my eyes, dreamless sleep finds me quickly.

* * *

In the morning, my eyes flutter open to thin rays of morning sunshine peeking in my windows. I find the chair where Peeta slept last night empty. Buttercup is the only living soul in my room. I think back to last night, of the memory of the boy with the bread sleeping in the chair in my room, but I cannot determine whether it was real or a dream. It looks as though nothing in my room has been touched. A part of me feels almost disappointed, but I push those feelings away and focus on the task at hand.

I scoop Buttercup into my arms and take him to the bathroom. _He sits stoically as I clean the cuts, but digging the thorn from his paw brings on a round of those kitten mews. We both end up crying again, only this time we comfort each other. _I run my fingers through his mangy, matted orange fur. I cut out some of the mats, and brush through his fur with a comb I find in a drawer. When I am finished, he looks better, like a thinner version of his former self.

From somewhere within myself, I find the strength to strip my clothes as I run a hot bath. On a whim, I dump some purple beads from a vial into the water, something my prep team always insisted I should use when I bathe. To my surprise, the scent of lavender fills the air. It is lovely and reminds me of spring. I climb into the depths of the tub and sink to my chin, soaking until the water is chilled and the bubbles have disappeared. Buttercup never leaves the bathroom, sitting on the countertop and grooming himself. I find his company strangely comforting, almost regretting all those times I threatened to cook him.

I pull myself from the bathtub and wrap myself in a soft, white towel. I examine my skin grafts, which are still red and angry. With a sigh of defeat, I dig into the drawer in which I have hidden all the remedies sent to me from the Capitol. I emerge with a jar of salve, its contents light green and translucent. It smells of eucalyptus. I smear some of it on my new, pink skin, and it feels marvelous. I brush the tangles out of my hair and, in an attempt to hide my bald scalp, wrap it in a tight knot at my neck. I return to my room and quickly dress in tan pants, a knit navy shirt, and a grey sweater. I lace my boots and stand before the mirror, examining myself. The dark bags below my eyes have become somewhat less pronounced, as have my protruding hipbones. My cheeks are still hollow, but my clothes fit better than they did weeks ago. With a deep breath I turn and leave the room, descending the stairs to the living room.

I walk to the mantle with a new confidence. I hear Sae in the kitchen, humming to herself and working diligently at producing a hearty breakfast. I reach for an envelope I last held weeks ago. _I open the letter Haymitch gave me from my mother. _She is brief, but she explains that she will be headed to District 4 to assist with opening a new hospital. She'll be staying with Annie until she can secure a place to live. She gives me a phone number, and asks me to call sometime. She tells me she loves me and signs her name with the beautiful penmanship I've always attributed to my mother's merchant class upbringing.

I walk into the hall wordlessly and _dial the phone number. I weep with her. _I tell her about Sae and Haymitch. I tell her of Buttercup, and of Peeta's return to District 12. When I have no more tears left to cry, I tell my mother I love and miss her and end our call. I cross into the kitchen and take a seat at the table. I turn when I hear the front door open, and I am shocked to see Peeta _bearing a warm loaf of bread. _I give him a small, genuine smile that travels to my eyes.

"Good morning," says Peeta hesitantly. "I-… I thought that maybe you might like some bread?" He looks exhausted, the color drained from his face albeit two dark, purple circles beneath his eyes. His lips are dry and cracked. His shirt and pants are rumpled, dusted with a fine layer of flour. Traces of flour linger in his hair and above his eyebrow. I feel a pang of worry in my gut for this boy, so broken and helpless, left alone in a district with no family and no one to watch over him. I secretly hope Sae will check in on him too, but I don't say as much.

I nod. "Thank you. It looks wonderful," I say, taking the delicious smelling bread from him and placing it on the counter.

Sae invites Peeta to stay for breakfast, and he agrees. The bread is sliced and placed on the table among other breakfast fixings—bacon, eggs, juice, tea, and grits. We eat silently, our eyes meeting only occasionally.

* * *

We fall into an easy routine over the following days, Peeta bringing bread each morning and joining me for breakfast. Though we ask her to join us, Sae does not join us eating, instead busying herself in the kitchen to tend to other things. I think she just wishes to give us privacy. Sometimes, Peeta joins me for dinner too, but I am disappointed when he doesn't linger after the meal. On evenings when he fails to appear, I am ashamed to admit the loneliness I feel. I try to push it away and focus on other things, but it nags at me. I am shocked when Peeta drags an exhausted, drunk Haymitch over for dinner one night, his shirt soaked with water. It is apparent that it took extraordinary effort to get him to join, but they say nothing, instead shoveling Sae's stew into their mouths, chasing it with rye bread provided by Peeta. The next time I see Haymitch, he is significantly less drunk.

My days are punctuated only by nightmares, from which I often wake myself screaming. Terrible things pop out at me in my dreams, especially monkey mutts and wolf mutts. I see Peeta die over and over again at the hands on monkey mutts, his leg ripped of mercilessly again and again by wolf mutts. Images of all the people I knew but have died permeate my dreams as well. I try to save every last one of them, never with success. I find that my nightmares not only haunt my nights, but sometimes plague my mind during waking moments as well.

_Slowly, with many lost days, I come back to life. _I begin to sort through the stacks of mail that have accumulated. I am shocked that so many people—Effie, Johanna, Annie, Flavius, Octavia, Venia, Paylor, Plutarch, Delly Cartwright, Hazelle Hawthorne, and others—write me often, inquiring of my health and my well-being. Though it takes some time, I begin to compose letters for them. They are short, mostly filled with mundane daily happenings, but I figure it is the least I can do for their faithful penmanship over the past months. Sae happily retrieves the letters from the table near the door, taking them to the station to be posted. I venture into the woods several days a week, carrying a bow and quiver but never hunting. The woods—my woods—feel like home. I avoid the mass grave, taking an alternate route, and no longer stop at the rock that was once the meeting place that belonged to Gale and myself. It no longer holds the significance of days past. Instead, I often find myself perched in a tree among the larks, wrens, and mockingjays, my mind wandering.

I regularly phone my mother, and begin to phone Dr. Aurelius twice a week as well. He assures me that the nightmares I experience are normal, and encourages me to take the klonopin he has prescribed to help with my anxiety. I make an effort to take it and find it helps some. _I try to follow his advice, just going through the motions, amazed when one finally has meaning again. On the phone one day, I tell him my idea for the book. I got the idea from my family's plant book. The place where we recorded those things you cannot trust to memory._

"I'd like to write memories… the memories of everyone we have lost," I explain hesitantly.

"I think that would be a good idea," says Aurelius cheerfully. "If you're up to it, maybe you could invite Peeta to join you in the creative process. I think it would do a great service to his memory." I agree, and the next day,_ a large box of parchment sheets arrives on the next train from the Capitol. _I decide to tell Peeta about the project at dinner.

When Peeta fails to materialize for dinner, I shovel food into my mouth with a great sense of urgency.

"Got somewhere to be, girl?" questions Sae with a knowing smile. I shake my head no, but her eyes bore through my soul, guilt forcing me to tell the truth.

"I just had something I needed to discuss with Peeta." I shovel the last bite in my mouth and grab a slice of bread of this morning for good measure. I thank Sae, but she ushers me into the kitchen. She fills a bowl with steaming stew and hands it to me.

"For the boy. We can't have him going hungry," she states simply. I nod, grateful for her thoughtful generosity. I thank her and exit the house, closing the door silently behind me. I cross the green of Victors' Village, the grass greening with the springtime temperatures. The cool night air smells earthy and fresh, and I drink it in with pleasure.

I climb the steps to Peeta's door and knock. Nothing. I wonder if he has gone somewhere, but the lights in his window tell a different story. I knock again, this time louder. Still nothing. Hesitantly, I try the knob and find it unlocked. I push the door open and let myself in.

I am so shocked by what I find that my mouth falls open. My eyes scan the room, finding piles of dirty laundry littering the floors. Furniture has been overturned. Broken glass is scattered on the wood floor of the hall that bisects the house. A trail of flour leads out of the kitchen before dissipating near the stairway. Frames containing Peeta's art have been ripped from the walls. I am immediately filled with a feeling of dread. I call out for Peeta, but there is no response. I gingerly place one foot ahead of the other, scanning the house for any sign of him.

As I walk into the kitchen, I catch sight of him. He is laying in a heap on the floor near the sink, his back to me. The muscles of his back are tense, visible through the back of his shirt. Unintelligible words escape his mouth with ferocity, sobs racking his body. I rush to him with no concern for my safety, placing the bowl of stew on the counter. I roll him onto his back and place my hands on either side of his face.

"Not real Peeta… Not real. Shhhhhh…. Come back to me, Peeta," I exclaim anxiously. I try to soothe him as his flashback persists. His pupils are dilated into solid black orbs. Sweat pours from his forehead and collects on his upper lip. I stroke his hair as tears fill my eyes. Guilt fills my soul as I remember his flashbacks are my fault. He was tortured to break me. If Haymitch had saved him from the Quell arena instead of me…

I am pulled from the depths of my mind as Peeta grabs my hand in his, crying out my name.

"I'm here, Peeta. I'm here!" I cry back, hot tears rolling down my cheeks. I look to my hand and realize blood is trickling from his grasp. My breath catches in my throat at the sight, but I will myself to be strong. I pry his hand from mine and stare into his palm. A long gash trails across his palm, slowly seeping blood. It is deep enough that I am certain it needs stitches, though the caked, dry blood at the edges tell me this happened some time ago. My eyes travel across the floor, searching for the cause, and land on a long serrated bread knife on the floor several feet away. I wonder how long he has been on the floor, feeling guilty for not coming over sooner. How often does this happen? Are his flashbacks always this violent?

My hands fly back to his cheeks as I straddle his torso so I can look directly into his eyes. "Peeta, you have to come back to me right now. Whatever you are seeing… it's not real. I'm here with you… you just have to come back." I stare into his eyes, but his eyes are unchanging, his teeth clenched and grinding. I feel my vision darken around the edges, anxiety wrecking my mind. I begin to sob loudly, smoothing Peeta's damp hair. He quiets a bit, and I fill the silence with words. "I'm sorry, Peeta…. I'm so sorry…" Defeated, I allow myself to crumble. My body flattens atop him, my head settling under his chin. I close my eyes and try to choke back my sobs, but they defeat me.

"Katniss?" asks a questioning voice moments later. I feel him tense beneath me. "Wha-… What are you doing here?" My eyes flash open as I bring myself to a sitting position. I stare down at him and see that his eyes, once clouded and dilated, are now clear and filled with concern.

I try to speak. "You had a flashback," I say hesitantly, sounding uncertain. "I came over to talk to you…" I raise my arm to my face and wipe my tears and snot on my sleeve. I take a deep breath to collect myself as I awkwardly remove myself from his torso and settle into a cross-legged position next to his prone body. "I found you like this. Are you okay?"

Peeta slowly raises himself into a sitting position, a look of acceptance washed across his face. "I'm fine. This happens a lot," he says nonchalantly. I feel my eyes grow wide with fear for him, and he realizes what he said. "I mean… they aren't all this bad… I…" he stammers.

Sadness creeps into the hole in my chest, and new tears threaten to spill over. I divert my eyes to my palms, and they catch a trace of blood. I am suddenly reminded of the cut on Peeta's palm. "Peeta, your hand," I exclaim with worry. His blue eyes find mine before raising his hands to his face, first inspecting the backs before turning his palms to his face. He cringes when he spots the wound.

I get to my feet and pull a clean dishcloth from the drawer near the sink. I wet it and sink to my knees beside Peeta, taking his hand to clean his wound.

"You don't have to… Ow!" Peeta's eyes meet with mine, a look of sadness filling his gaze. I pause, considering whether I should continue. I study his face. He looks exhausted, no doubt the product of his flashback. He takes a deep, ragged breath before starting again. "Really, Katniss, it's fine…"

I cut him off. "It's not fine, Peeta. You need stitches. It's too deep." He grits his teeth as I begin gently cleaning his wound again. Once I am satisfied that the cut is clean, I instruct him to hold pressure on the rag while I run to my house to collect a needle and thread.

I move to my home quickly, pulling thread and a needle from the medical kit that once belonged to my mother. A vial catches my eye, and I glance at it. Morphling. On instinct, I grab the vial and syringe, as well as a bandage and some salve. I get to my feet and exit out my door and across the green space to the house that belongs to Peeta.

I enter to find that Peeta has moved to the living room, his eyes heavy lidded. He scoots aside to make room for me on the sofa. I drop the items I retrieved from home onto the sofa and busy myself preparing his wound to be stitched closed.

As I fill the syringe with a small dose of morphling, I glance to Peeta. He is barely keeping his eyes open. "I thought I'd give you some of this to numb the pain in your hand," I explain, showing him the vial. He nods his approval, and I gently insert the needle into his palm. I begin to stitch the skin back together, taking great effort to ensure my stitches are small and precise. When I finish, I examine my work. Its certainly not the handwork of my mother, but it will suffice.

Peeta raises his hand to his face to examine my work. "Nice work, Dr. Everdeen," he states with admiration, though his voice is thick with sleep. I smile at him, then busy myself with putting salve on the wound and bandaging it. Peeta yawns, and I know the effects of the morphling combined with the exhaustion resulting from his flashback are taking him nearer to sleep. I excuse myself and trot towards the kitchen.

I return moments later with the bowl of stew to find Peeta half asleep. I consider leaving him to his slumber, but decide against it.

"Hey," I say softly. His eyes flutter open. "Sae sent this over for you. I'm sorry that its cold. I can warm it…."

"No, no…" he interrupts. "It's fine. Thank you." I hand him the bowl, and he begins spooning it into his mouth.

I busy myself with fluffing the pillows behind him, making something resembling a nest. Peeta thanks me, turning so that he can put his feet up on the sofa and sinking back into the pillows. When he finishes his stew, I take the bowl to the kitchen and wash it silently.

When I return, I find Peeta has fallen into a deep sleep. His jaw is slack, and his face is relaxed. He looks peaceful, and I smile. I pull a blanket from a nearby chair and spread it over him, covering him from shoulder to toe. I turn out the lights in the kitchen and hall, plus all but one lamp in the living room. I consider leaving, but think better of it. I worry he will slip into another flashback. I select a chair near the sofa and sink into it, suddenly feeling exhausted. I wrap myself in a warm blanket, noticing that it smells of Peeta. It is comforting. I struggle to keep my eyes open in a feeble attempt to keep vigilant watch of Peeta, but sleep eventually finds me. I sleep a dreamless sleep.


	6. A Book of Memories

_Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. Suzanne Collins does. In an effort to keep this as accurate to the book as possible, I have quoted her some here. I tried to put all quotes that come from Mockingjay in italics—all credit to Suzanne Collins._

* * *

I wake with the dawn, its grey light washing through Peeta's windows. Though my neck is stiff, I actually slept well. I scour my mind to remember any nightmares I may have had, but I come up empty. I have learned to be grateful for these things since the Games. Nights like this are few and far between. I stretch my arms above my head and look to the sofa. Peeta is still there, sleeping soundly. He's kicked off his shoes during the night, his good foot poking out from the blanket. In sleep, his face looks younger than it has since he was extracted from the Capitol. I feel the corners of my mouth turn up in a smile. I stand, folding the blanket that kept me warm in the night. I contemplate my next move. Go home and sleep for another hour? Go into the woods? Wait for Peeta to wake?

As my eyes travel around the room, I see the clutter that has accumulated and decide to make an effort to put Peeta's house back in order. I realize that, while Sae has been keeping my house, Peeta has been left to fend for himself. A pang of guilt settles in my stomach. In my boots, I walk soundlessly across the wooden floors. I carry dirty dishes, strewn on every visible surface, to the sink in the kitchen. I run hot, soapy water in the sink and let the crusted dishes soak while I sweep the floor with a broom, creating a pile of flour, dirt, and glass. I place the debris in the garbage can. Using a soft rag, I wipe down the countertops and table, removing the fine layer of flour that covers everything. I collect Peeta's damaged art pieces and, unsure how to salvage most of them, pile them on the table top. I straighten kitchen chairs, end tables, and other furniture pieces that have been toppled. I collect the dirty clothes that linger in corners and dangle from furniture, placing them in a laundry basket I find at the foot of the stairs. I laugh to myself, finding it hard to believe he could have a single item of clean clothing left in the house. Once the rooms are straightened, I busy myself in the kitchen, washing and drying the dishes in the sink.

When I finish, I am shocked to find that Peeta is still sleeping soundly on the sofa. I collect the laundry basket and hurry out the door, closing it soundlessly behind me. As I step into the cool morning, I see Greasy Sae letting herself in my front door. Her eye catches me walking from the direction of Peeta's house, still in my clothes from the previous night, and a mischievous grin creeps across her lips. I let out an exasperated sigh as I climb the porch stairs, rolling my eyes.

"It's not what you think," I defend.

"I didn't say a word, girl!" says Sae, jokingly, walking into the kitchen.

I toss the basket onto the floor with a thud as the memory of last night creeps into my mind. I let out a pained sigh and look to Sae. "He had an episode last night. A bad one." I pause, the fear fresh in my mind from seeing him struggle to fight the hallucinations on the floor only the night before. My eyes meet hers, a pained look crossing her features. "I spent the morning picking up his house. It looked like a war zone."

Sae frowned. "I've tried to tend his house a couple of times. He said he'd take care of it." She busied herself rummaging in the cupboards.

I feel a little relief with the knowledge Sae at least tried to look out for Peeta. I excuse myself, hauling the basket of laundry to my hip and heading out the back door. I haul water from the house out to the large washtub on my back porch. I add lye soap to the water and stir it with the small paddle. It's been years since I've done this task, but it feels like a lifetime ago. I realize I take for granted the painstaking work of washing laundry by hand, once completed for me by Hazelle but now completed by Sae. I vaguely remember Effie speaking of the washing machines used in the Capitol, and make a mental note to look into purchasing one for my home. As I lift the laundry from the basket, I realize it smells of cinnamon and yeast. Of perspiration and harsh soap. It smells like Peeta, and odor that, over time, has become comforting.

Though the laundry is a troublesome task, I find the monotony soothing, the muscles in my back and arms feeling alive with the strain. I almost feel alive. When I finish, I examine my work. The clothesline is full, but I am satisfied. I empty the tub and head into the house.

Peeta is already sitting at the table, sipping some black tea. When he sees me, he looks embarrassed.

"Morning," I tell him, giving him a small smile.

He gives me a small grin, embarrassment still written on his face. "I-… I'm really sorry you saw that." He pauses. His face becomes serious. "Last night, I mean. And you really didn't need to pick up after me. I…." He trails off when he sees that I've put my hands on my hips, giving him my best annoyed look.

"Peeta, it's fine. It's not like you can control it." I pause. "The flashbacks, that is. Now your house…" A huge grin spreads across my face, and we both laugh. Laughter feels foreign to my body, so often racked with sobs, but it feels good. "Sae said she's tried to clean, but you told her no?" I give him a questioning look. I see Sae smiling, stirring a pot on the stove top.

"I… Well, she…" he stammers. I look at him quizzically. "I was embarrassed for her to see it that way." He looks sheepish, eyes in his lap.

"Hey Peeta?" I ask. He looks at me, his cerulean blue eyes meeting my grey ones. "Do yourself a favor. Let her." He nods, then grins, blushing.

We eat mostly in silence, with Sae sometimes sharing news about the reconstruction of town. Sae clears the table, then excuses herself, heading over to Peeta's to clean. Peeta stands and heads towards the door without a word.

"Peeta," I call, "wait!" He turns around, a look of worry on his face.

"What is it?" he asks inquisitively.

"I was, um… wondering what you were doing today."

Some emotions I can't distinguish flash across his face, and he nervously rubs the back of his neck with his hand. "I was going to bake some… maybe take some into town? Why?" He walks back towards the table, leaning over the back of a chair.

"Well, I talked to Dr. Aurelius the other day. I had this idea," I explain. "An idea to create a book, like the plant book you helped me illustrate. But instead of plants, I thought we could write about… People. The people we've lost." Sadness finds me as I begin to think of all the people we must write about. My voice comes out like a whisper as tears pool in my eyes. "So we don't forget. So they aren't forgotten."

Peeta thinks about this for a moment, nodding in agreement. "Sounds like a really good idea. When do we start?"

"Now?" I suggest, staring at my hands. He is silent for a moment before pulling out his chair and sitting. "Thank you," I whisper, several hot tears spilling from my eyes. Wordlessly, Peeta reaches across the table and places his strong, warm hand over mine, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"Should we start with… her?" he asks gently. He doesn't have to say her name. I know.

I nod my head, getting to my feet and wiping the tears from my cheeks with my sleeve. I retrieve the box of paper and several ink pens from the study, spreading them on the kitchen table. I take a deep breath and take a sheet of paper from the box. I leave room at the top of the paper for a photograph or a sketch. _In my most careful handwriting come all the details that it would be a crime to forget. _The day I gave Lady to Prim. Her nickname, Little Duck. Prim's first day of school. The day my mother taught her to knit. _Lady licking Prim's cheek. _The memory of Buttercup. Even the story of the day Prim was reaped, and I volunteered in her place. Of her bravery during a time of war.

Eventually, Peeta moves to the chair by my side, reading the words that spill onto the pages. Occasionally, he wipes a tear from my cheek. He even covers my free hand with his, stroking the back of my hand with his thumb. It is comforting.

I finish, setting the pen on the tabletop and surveying my work. Ten pages. I gnaw my fingernails, nubs already from the persistent nervous habit. I feel guilty, for it seems that the life of such a wonderful person should consume more than ten pages. I look to Peeta for reassurance, and he nods, a look of sadness spread across his features.

"May I?" he asks, hesitantly. I give him a confused look. "May I… write?" he asks. I give a single nod, crossing my arms across my chest and hunching over in an effort to comfort myself.

He takes the pen and begins to scrawl words onto the page. His handwriting is beautiful. I shouldn't be surprised. He is an artist, after all. I read his words with curiosity.

Peeta, too, writes about his memories of Prim. The way she greeted us when we returned from the Games. The way she looked when she helped treat him in District 13. Her maturity beyond her years. The times he saw her looking through the bakery window, studying the beautifully decorated cakes, her hair in two plaits, me beside her.

It is too much. I excuse myself hastily as he continues to write. I retrieve a cup from the cupboard and fill it with water. I try to drink it, but I can't seem to catch my breath. It feels as if someone is standing on my chest, my vision darkening around the edges. The word "panic attack" comes to mind, thinking back to a conversation I had with Dr. Aurelius. I try desperately to get a grip, but my efforts seem to make it worse. My glass falls into the sink, shattering. I give in, sinking to the floor and curling into a fetal position.

When I close my eyes, I see silver parachutes falling from the sky. I see children enthusiastically grabbing for them in anticipation of the gifts within. In slow motion, I see the first round of bombs tear through the crowd, limbs scattering and lives lost. Then I see her… Her shirt untucked in the back, her blonde braids falling down her back. I scream her name. I run towards her, but I cannot close the distance between us. She turns to face me as more bombs explode. I couldn't save her.

Sobs of desperation rack my chest, my arms covering my face. I faintly register him kneeling next to me, but I cannot pull myself from my thoughts enough to focus on what's being said. Time passes. I feel myself being pulled to his chest, his warm arms wrapped around me protectively. I am rocked, my hair stroked. As time passes, I see the world clearing around me. My breathing returns to near normal, and I feel my muscles begin to relax. He kisses my hair. I try to focus on his soothing words. I feel entirely spent.

Eventually, he lifts me from the floor and carries me to the sofa. He lays me down, then sits, placing my head on a pillow he places in his lap. My tears are silent as he strokes my hair. "Just leave me," I tell him, my voice thick with exhaustion.

"No," he tells me. "That's not what we do." His eyes meet mine, and I see that his eyes, too, are filled with tears. I let out a ragged breath, closing my eyes. "We protect each other."

We stay this way for a long time until I fall asleep. And when I wake, he is still with me.


	7. Living in Death

_Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, do not own the Hunger Games. The story and its characters belong to the wonderfully talented Suzanne Collins. However, I do like to dream about marrying a fellow as swell as Peeta or about being as courageous as Katniss._

_I know author's notes suck, so I'll make it short. Thank you so much to the readers who have posted reviews. I'm really excited to have folks following this story, and the reviews are motivation to continue writing. I originally thought I'd write for myself—since Suzanne Collins never wrote a fourth book—but I'm thrilled that others bother to read. With that said… On to chapter seven!_

* * *

In some ways, I believe writing about Prim helped begin the process of closure to her tragic and untimely death. It was something I hadn't really talked about with anyone, not even Dr. Aurelius. But in other ways, writing of her death stirred feelings I had suppressed in the months since the tragedy. My life, which I had slowly started putting back together, begins to spin out of control so rapidly that no one saw it coming.

I don't eat. Sae manages to coax a drink of water most days, but I refuse her food and tea, much to her dismay. I don't bathe, and I never change my clothes. My skin grafts become irritated and red, most likely infected from poor care. My hair became greasy, then a tangled rats nest. I don't go out to the woods. In fact, the furthest I travel is from my bed to the bathroom. I am plagued by endless nightmares, in which everyone I love dies, again and again. And just like the weeks following Prim's death, I don't speak. I am mute in my grief. I spend my time studying the ceiling, the wall, my fingernails, the bed sheets… staring for hours, but seeing nothing at all.

Sae checks on me several times per day, bringing me water and foods that sit on the nightstand uneaten. She offers small encouragements. "It's a beautiful day outside, girl. Ought to get out of here. Get some sun."

Peeta comes to check on me, but like Sae, I barely acknowledge his presence. I know he is worried, but I am too selfish to reassure him that things will be okay. I couldn't honestly tell him that, because I don't think they will. How can a world where Prim no longer exists be alright? I cannot bring myself to meet his gaze. This is a battle I must fight alone. Sometimes he reads aloud to be from books, like _Journey to the Center of the Earth_ or _Oliver Twist_. Though I don't tell him so, I am glad for this; it helps me to put my mind somewhere else, if only temporarily. Sometimes, when I wake from my nightmares, he is there, sitting with his back against the headboard. He soothes me in a soft voice, stroking my hair and my back. But as the days wear on, Peeta comes less and less. His absence makes the void in my chest even greater.

My days begin to fade into one extraordinarily long day. Time has no meaning, and the world around me is never-changing. I quit noticing the hunger pangs in my stomach. I fade in and out of consciousness. My mouth is so dry I can barely open it. My lips crack, as does my skin. The nightmares get worse, but I no longer have tears to cry or screams to scream. I lie in bed and shake in terror. I have lost the will to live.

It is late afternoon, with the orange sun straining to shine through my tightly pulled curtains. I could have been here weeks, or even months. I don't know. I wake, overhearing a conversation outside my room. It takes me a moment to realize that Haymitch is speaking with Sae.

"The girl's not gonna make it if she doesn't start taking some provisions. She's near dead now, so far as I can tell."

"I don't see how my being here is going to help the kid," he grumbles in a gruff tone.

"The girl done fell apart, and the boy followed suit without her, he did. You're the closest thing either of 'em has to a father. If you can't talk some sense into her, it's time to call the doctor."

The boy? Peeta? He's doing poorly too? This new knowledge twists my stomach in unpleasant ways. There is a moment of silence before the door to my room is pushed open. I do not remove my eyes from the wall, where they are locked. I feel the bed dip slightly, and Haymitch speaks.

"You look like shit, Sweetheart. You can't do this to yourself."

I blink. I say nothing.

"You've been through too much for a girl. You saw almost everyone around you die. And I know you lost your sister." He pauses. "But she wouldn't want you living like this, Katniss. She loved you, and she'd never wish this living hell on anyone, especially you."

My heart feels like it's being ripped out of my chest. It is so rare that anyone even mentions Prim, lest speaks openly about her. The truth in his words catches me off guard. I look to him, and our eyes meet. He looks like hell, the bags under his eyes darker than I've seen since the rebellion. His eyes are filled with desperation and sadness. He is holding water in one hand and a liquor bottle in the other, but he smells remarkably sober. He sets the glass and bottle on the nightstand. He extends his arm and places his palm on my forehead.

"Damn, you're burning up, Katniss. What the hell is going on?"

I give him a perplexed look. Burning up? I've been freezing for days, buried to my ears in thick, warm covers. I shiver. With that, he purses his lips.

"Sit up for me and drink some of this water." I close my eyes and feign sleep. "Oh, no you don't. Sit up, Katniss. Now." I sense anger and urgency in his voice.

I make a weak attempt to sit, but sitting makes me dizzy. I end up propped on one elbow, Haymitch holding the glass to my lips as I take several sips. The water feels like its ripping out my parched throat. I look to him and realize he's incredibly uncomfortable in this caretaker role.

It takes quite some time, but eventually Haymitch gets all the water into me. My mouth and throat feel a little better, but my state of melancholy remains the same. I shrink back onto the bed and stare at Haymitch, unsure what comes next in this uncomfortable encounter. We stay this way for a long time, him saying nothing. Eventually, though, he does break the silence.

"Katniss. You have to go on living." He pauses, and his eyes find mine. "You have to live well… to make the lives of those lost count."

I let out a ragged breath. I don't want to hear this. I want to be left alone, left to leave this unbearable life. I reach my trembling hand to the edge of the blanket, and pull it over my head. I feel Haymitch shake me, but I refuse to acknowledge him.

"Get up. You've got to get up." I do nothing. "Get UP, Katniss." His voice is almost frantic.

I squeeze my eyes closed, only to find bombs exploding. I see her lose her life again, and I come undone. I wail into my pillow.

I feel Haymitch rub my back as I release my anguish into my pillow. It feels like hours later when I finally pull myself back together enough to steady my breathing. I have no tears left to cry, and my throat is so raw that no more screams can escape. I lay still.

A little while later, I hear someone else walk into the room. I do not move.

"Well?" It's Sae.

There is a long, silent pause. I wonder if they are gesturing to one another, but I don't let my curiosity get the best of me. I don't have the energy to even bother looking. Eventually, Haymitch speaks in a near whisper. He must think I'm asleep. "I guess it is time to go try to talk sense into the kid. Problem is, he's so attached to this one that if she goes, he'll want to go too."

Go? Where am I going? A sudden wave of panic strikes me as I realize the could mean the Capitol. _No! _my inner self screams. _I'd rather die than return to that place. I'd rather die than live. _Then I realize… "Go" could also refer to an impending death. Mine.

I feel the bed shudder, then I hear two pairs of footsteps leave my room. Relieved, I let myself fade into a nightmare filled sleep.


	8. Embracing the End

_Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, do not own the Hunger Games. The story and its characters belong to the wonderfully talented Suzanne Collins. However, I do like to dream about marrying a fellow as swell as Peeta or about being as courageous as Katniss._

* * *

At first, I think I'm in a dream. Or maybe I'm dying. I hear Peeta saying my name. I can feel him touch my shoulders, my hair. All I see is blackness, and I cannot see him in the landscape of my dream. I only feel him. I feel myself being lifted and open my eyes, realizing this is no dream. This is really happening. Peeta is here.

He lays me on my back and pulls the covers away. My eyes follow him. He looks years older, his eyes empty and cloudy. He wears his nightmares and his flashbacks in his eyes. Despite his look of exhaustion, he has recently bathed; his hair is still damp, and he smells of harsh soap. His forehead is wrinkled and his brow furrowed. He is determined.

With the blankets removed, the air hits my skin. It is freezing. I shiver and tremble with the cold. Peeta notices, and his face grows even more concerned. His palm touches my forehead before pulling it back.

"Katniss, you are burning up! You're sick." It takes all the energy I can muster, but I shake my head no. "What is wrong? Do you feel bad? What hurts?" I lay still and silent. Something catches his eye, and they travel to my stomach. I close my eyes, wishing him away.

"Katniss! Your skin grafts… they are infected!" He tugs my shirt up. I open my eyes and try to give him a menacing look, but it is feeble.

My eyes travel to the skin on my stomach, and I can see that it is red and inflamed, oozing yellow puss in a few places. I should be worried, but I close my eyes with a sense of resolve. _Just let this life be over_, I think.

"We have to clean your grafts, Katniss… put cream on them. We'll get your medicine and some food down you… you'll feel like a whole new person."

A tear rolls down my cheek and I feel my lip tremble. I shake my head no.

"I refuse to let you die here!" he yells. My eyes open in surprise. I see him pick up the liquor bottle Haymitch left, and he lets it shatter against the wall. Tears are forming behind his eyes, and his voice is thick with emotion. "We protect each other. That's what we do! And now you're going to leave me here alone?" He waits for me to respond, and tears begin streaming down his face. When I fail to respond, he storms out of the room and down the stairs.

It is silent. In another time, I may have been overwhelmed by emotions but today, I am empty. All my emotions have been invested in mourning Prim. I have nothing left to spend but my life. And it's almost spent, too.

The silence is broken when I hear Peeta yelling.

"Let me talk to him. Now!"

Pause.

"I don't care if he's with Paylor herself! I will speak with him right now!"

Pause. I hear Peeta speak, but it is muffled. I try to focus on what he is saying, but my mind is cloudy. I zone out.

* * *

A short time later, I hear him on the stairs again. He bursts into my room without a word and lifts me from the bed, arms under my shoulders and behind my knees. I don't have the energy to fight. I let my head fall to his shoulder and I breathe him in. He carries me into the bathroom and sits me on the edge of the tub. He turns on the water and adjusts the temperature. My body trembles with chills.

Wordlessly, Peeta begins the process of removing my clothing, starting with my shirt. I suddenly realize he intends on bathing me, and I approach hysterics. A wail escapes my lips as I fight him, but his arms are too strong. He pulls me to him in a tight embrace.

I cannot bear his sadness. Breaking my silence that has lasted days, even weeks, I say in a barely audible whisper, "Just let me die, Peeta."

He breaks his embrace and places his hands on my shoulders, looking into my eyes. "No. You are not allowed to die. My nightmares are still about losing you. I refuse to let my nightmares become reality. You're all I've got."

I want to tell him to stop. I want to tell him no. I want to tell him to move on, that he doesn't need me. But I don't have the energy or the resolve. He goes on undressing me, first pulling off my shirt and undershirt then my pants, socks, and underwear. Any sane person would be embarrassed, but we've seen each other in compromised positions before. This was nothing new. Besides, to call me "sane" at this juncture is pushing it.

He picks me up and sets me gently into the tub of water. He pulls the tie from my hair, letting my hair spill onto my shoulders. Without speaking, he begins washing my body, taking extra care with the areas where my infected skin grafts linger. He is sensitive with his eyes, averting them from places that could cause me embarrassment. He soaps my hair and conditions it, running a comb through it to work out the tangles.

When I am pink and clean, he lifts me from the tub and wraps me in a soft, white towel. He dries me delicately, as if I may shatter from his touch. He wraps the towel around my middle and sits me on the edge of the tub. I sit quietly, clutching the towel between my fingers, watching him curiously. He moves to the sink, rummaging around in drawers and cabinets until he retrieves a handful of medicine bottles and jars of cream. He reads them carefully, setting them into different piles. He returns to my side with a jar of cream.

As he rubs the medicated cream into my skin, I suddenly realize how much my skin actually hurts. My body tenses as I release a pained moan, gritting my teeth. Peeta stops.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice full of concern.

I nod. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing but air comes out. I take a deep breath to gather my thoughts, but I find myself unable to do so as Peeta places his hands on both sides of my face. He looks into my eyes with his gentle, blue eyes, wordlessly repeating the question.

"My skin hurts," I confess in a whisper. A tear rolls down my cheek. He nods, placing a lingering kiss on my forehead. I close my eyes and sigh, leaning into his lips. He brushes away the tear with his thumb before returning to tending my skin. He is gentle as he medicates the rest of my skin. I watch his gaze travel across my skin with equal parts concern and care. My head is swimming and dizzy, and when he touches the most painful spots on my skin, darkness begins to creep into my vision.

When his task is complete, Peeta excuses himself, and returns in a few moments with clothing. He lingers with uncertainty, unsure whether to dress me or let me do it myself. I extend my arms, taking the clothes from him. Taking that as his cue, he turns his back to me.

I feel uncomfortable in my own skin, weak and shaky. I set the clothes on the counter and stumble to my feet. I first tackle the underwear, taking a long time to get them on. By the time I have struggled into them, I am totally exhausted. My hands and knees tremble in rhythm, and I find myself sinking down onto my knees on the bath rug. I let out a whimper as my body goes prone on the floor.

"Katniss?" Peeta asks, turning to see me lying on the floor.

Before I realize what is happening, the world around me fades into blackness.


	9. A Spark

_Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, do not own the Hunger Games. The story and its characters belong to the wonderfully talented Suzanne Collins. However, I do like to dream about marrying a fellow as swell as Peeta or about being as courageous as Katniss._

_A/N: I know everyone wants Peeta and Katniss to get moving on their relationship. I understand your frustration, but I also know that Suzanne Collins never wrote Katniss to be "that girl". She's too cautious. So, I'll try to get it moving for ya'll without totally ruining the character development done by Collins._

When I open my eyes, I find myself in my bed. The room is dimly lit. My head is throbbing and my throat feels raw. I fight through the exhaustion that racks my body as my eyes travel down my body. I am dressed in clean pajamas, my hair pulled into a shorter version of my signature braid. I startle, noticing I have an IV in my arm. I touch the place where the needle enters my elbow with my fingers.

"Hey, you're awake."

The voice catches me off guard, and my eyes travel to the chair at the edge of my bed. Of course it's Peeta. I nod.

"What happened?" I ask, my voice gravelly.

"You blacked out," he tells me, his eyes on the ground.

I fidget with the tube running from my arm. "How did you…" I don't finish the thought.

Peeta looks to me, sees me fingering the tube. "Oh, I didn't… Dr. Aurelius arrived shortly after you passed out."

Dr. Aurelius is here? I furrow my brow. "I don't want him here," I say with a hint of malice in my voice. "I don't want anyone here."

Peeta's expression changes from concern to one of hurt. "But we were so worried about you, Katniss. We couldn't let you end your life. Plutarch sent Dr. Aurelius on a hovercraft, and he got…"

"No!" I interrupt, raising my voice. I give him my most threatening look. I lower my voice into a growl. "Get out!"

I see the tears welling up in Peeta's blue eyes as he considers, then stands to leave. I cross my arms across my chest, defiant. Standing at the door, Peeta looks back at me. In a barely audible whisper, he chokes, "I love you, even if you don't love yourself."

I close my eyes, and I hear the door click. I don't know how to feel anymore. I try to clear my head, but all I see are the bombs behind my eyelids. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. I hear the door open again, but my eyes stay trained on the ceiling.

"You're awake," I hear Dr. Aurelius say. "It's good to see you again. You quit picking up your phone. I warned you I'd show up on your doorstep if you didn't answer."

I try to ignore him, but he continues. "And you quit taking your prescriptions. It's no wonder you feel so bad."

I sigh, feeling defeated but saying nothing.

"After everything everyone did to try to protect you and keep you alive, it's awfully selfish of you to decide you want to die. Your friends are worried about you."

I grit my teeth and glare at him. "Nobody needs me."

"You're usually a very perceptive young woman, but I think this time you've got it wrong," says Dr. Aurelius. "You've got plenty of people who need you. Peeta certainly needs you. In fact, he loves you. He's told you before that his nightmares are about losing you. How do you think he's faring when his nightmares are becoming reality?" He purses his lips, looking serious.

When I don't speak, he continues. "And there's Haymitch. He may not act like it, but he cares for you like you were his child. He can't handle seeing you this way. He's holed up in his house drunk."

I feel the tears well up behind my eyes, and I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood trying to push them away. "Stop," I growl, guilt filling the pit of my stomach.

Though I hate to admit it to myself, I know he's right. I'm being selfish. Harming myself is harming those around me. It was written on Peeta's face when I told him to leave. Though it felt defiant at the time, now I feel horrible for hurting him.

We sit in silence for what seems like hours. I try to picture a future for myself, but I can't imagine what it would look like. Finally, Aurelius breaks the silence.

"I'm going to be staying with you for a while to make sure things are okay. To get your meds straightened out."

I give him an annoyed look.

"And I'm staying here to be a friend," he finishes. I try to read his expression, assuming it is insincere, yet I find no insincerity in his face. His expression is a mix of emotions, from caring to concern. He reaches into his pocket and removes three pill bottles. He opens them, one by one, removing colorful tablets. He extends his hand to me. "Take these?" he asks, looking hopeful.

I consider the situation, my brow furrowing. Death may be an escape, but it is the easy way out. It would hurt those around me even more than I've hurt them already. I feel ashamed of what I've become. I was once selfless and brave; now I'm a selfish coward. I dig deep within myself to find the girl I once was, not the woman I've become. I would have fought with every fiber of my being to live two years ago.

Without another thought, I scoop the pills from his palm into my hand and drop them in my mouth. I grab the glass of water off the night stand and swallow them, the pills feeling like bricks in my throat. I drink until the glass is empty and slam it down defiantly on the night stand. It is in this moment that I vow to make my life count for all the lives that were lost. "Unhook me," I say, thrusting my arm in Aurelius's direction.

He looks perplexed. "Katniss, you're very dehydrated. I don't think…"

"Now!" I shout, throwing the covers off. He sits in stunned silence. I let an exasperated sigh escape my chest before ripping the tape off my arm and pulling the needle out. I am to the dresser before Aurelius can get to his feet. From the top drawer, I pull an olive green tunic and a tan knit sweater. From the bottom drawer, I grab a pair of black denim pants. I consider changing in the bathroom instead of in front of Aurelius, but modesty is the least of my problems. My pajama bottoms fall to the floor, and I stuff my legs into my pants. I button them, but they are loose… much looser than I remember. I wonder to myself how much weight I've lost, making a mental note to eat something.

"What are you doing?" Aurelius asks curiously.

"I have something I have to do," I mutter, tearing my shirt off and replacing it with the tunic. I stuff my arms into the sweater before yanking open a drawer to extract socks. I try to ignore my cramping stomach, the cold water I just drank causing painful cramps in my empty stomach. I put on my socks, then descend the stairs to the back door.

I catch a glimpse of Sae standing in the kitchen door out of the corner of my eye, a perplexed look on her face. She is holding a plate filled with muffins that only could have come from Peeta. I snatch one off the plate and try to give her a convincing grin. I shove half the muffin into my mouth unceremoniously, sitting on the bench to tie my hunting boots. I finish the muffin in two bites and am surprised how much better my stomach feels.

"You're not running off, are you?" I hear Aurelius behind me.

A cackle escapes my lungs, though there is no humor behind it. "No, I'm going to Peeta's." I am on my feet and out the door before he can say another word.


	10. Life's for the Living

_A/N: The song referenced in this chapter is "Life's for the Living" by Passenger. If you haven't heard it before, it's worth a listen._

* * *

As I cross the lawn in Victor's Village, I can feel my brain trying to process all the emotions I feel. The grief I've dealt with for some time is still there, yes, but beneath it? Hope. The hope my wise, young sister once saw in the people of District 12 is now the flame that has been lit inside me once more. She would want me to live, of that I am certain.

I barge into Peeta's house without as much as a knock on the door. I scan the sitting room, living room, and kitchen, but he is nowhere to be found. The house is cluttered once more, but not like the last time I had entered here. I pause at the foot of the stairs, unsure whether it is rude to travel beyond this point. I let out a sigh and climb the stairs, which I find takes a great amount of effort. My body, once strong, is atrophying with abuse. I find the door to Peeta's room closed, so I knock.

"Go away, Haymitch," I hear Peeta say in a remorseful tone.

I find myself surprised that he thinks Haymitch is at his door, but it does give me hope that Haymitch has been looking out for him during my period of mental instability. I knock again.

"I said go away," he responds coolly. "Life is hard enough. I don't want to do it without her... and she doesn't want me."

It feels like I've been punched in the gut, the air rushing out of my lungs. I take a moment to regain my composure before scanning my brain for a response. My fingers find the knob and turn, pushing the door open. I find Peeta sprawled on the bed face down, looking disheveled.

"You're right. Life is hard. I wouldn't want to live it without you."

Peeta turns over and sits up, startled. He gives me a look of total confusion. I examine him, seeing what my eyes had failed to see only hours earlier. His eyes are cloudy and filled with grief and the bags beneath them tell stories of sleepless nights. His cheeks are hollow. I feel the grief I have tried to suppress well within me, but I push it away. I channel the Katniss I once knew, letting hope flood in once more.

"I'm sorry for losing myself in my grief," I stammer awkwardly.

I don't have a way with words like Peeta. He knows it, too. For this reason, in this moment I know that every word that escapes my mouth will mean more. I stare at the toes of my boots.

"I guess remembering the details of my sister's life pushed me over the edge," I continue. I swallow hard, fumbling with the end of my short braid. "But she would want me to live. And the old me… the Katniss that hadn't been consumed by and destroyed in the Games… she would have been ashamed of how selfish and weak I've been." I pause, getting lost in my thoughts. I begin to parallel my mental breakdown to that of my mother when my father died. For the first time in ages, I feel like I can finally identify with my mother. "I guess there is more of my mother in me than I once thought."

I raise my eyes to Peeta, who is watching me intently perched on the edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry," I choke, tears filling my eyes. Though it takes every ounce of my resolve, I refuse to let them fall. I insist to myself that my hope is stronger than my fears.

Peeta opens his arms and I rush into them without hesitation. We fit together like pieces of a puzzle. He is strong and warm, and I let myself be consumed by him. He kisses my hair, and I feel the stubble on his chin on my temple.

"Are you going to be okay?" he asks softly.

I consider my answer. "I'm going to try," I say earnestly. "I know some days will be hard, but I'll get past them."

He pulls back from me, holding me at arm's length to study my expression. I try to wear a look of determination, meeting his gaze. Though his eyes look more tortured than I have seen in quite some time, they mirror the same love I feel but rarely acknowledge. Though it had been apparent to others, it wasn't until Peeta was in the custody of the Capital that I truly began to understand the depth of my feelings for him. While Gale and I grew apart under the stress of the Games and Rebellion, Peeta and I grew together. He is my rock, refusing to give up on me when others have. He is the strongest person I know, overcoming even the most daunting challenges with hope in his heart. He is generous and kind. Though I could try, I know I would never be able to convince myself not to love him.

"I really am sorry," I whisper shamefully.

"I know," whispers Peeta, his hand lifted to my face, his thumb stroking my cheek.

Without thinking, I lean into him and lock my lips to his. I can tell he is shocked, because it takes him a moment to return my gesture. His lips are gentle and soft, and it makes me feel uncomfortable about my rough, chapped lips. In an effort to forget, I wrap my arms around his neck and deepen the kiss. His hands find my face and he strokes my cheeks. We gently part, resting our foreheads together.

Suddenly, a tune pops into my head. It's a song I haven't heard in years, but it is an old folk song my father used to sing. Before, the words never seemed true; but today, I understand the meaning of the song. I begin to hum the melody softly, and it feels as though each note pulls weights from my chest.

When I finish the melody line, I open my eyes to look at Peeta, who is staring at me curiously.

"What was that?" he asks.

"A song my father used to sing to me," I respond.

"Sing it?" he asks. "To me?"

I hesitate, but eventually comply. I raise my voice.

_"Don't you cry for the lost,  
Smile for the living,  
Get what you need and give what you're given,  
Life's for the living so live it,  
Or you're better off dead." _

When I finish, the silence in the room is haunting. Peeta's eyes are clearer than they were only moments ago, tears threatening to spill over. He pulls me to him, locking our lips once more. I feel my entire body relax, his nearness both comforting and familiar. When he pulls away, we lock our bodies into a long hug. I see Aurelius standing in the doorway of the bedroom, a small grin playing at the corners of his mouth. I feel my brow furrow wondering how long he's been standing there. He nods at me knowingly and walks away, unseen by Peeta. I try to muster feelings, but find I'm consumed by the love I feel for this boy. I let the moment pass.

With Peeta in my life, it is worth living. I refuse to succumb to grief anymore. I will live to make all the lost lives count. I will learn to live in this new normal.


End file.
